First You Run (21 page)

One, then two long, silent minutes went by. Then five. Every second there was no gunfire, she felt better. She imagined him returning to the edge of the jungle, snaking his way along to get to the house…and then what?

Still no gunfire.

One more time, she pulled the phone out to check it, turning it over to make sure the chip was still in place. Just as she did, the ground rumbled with a low, unearthly growl of stone against stone.

She froze, and watched in horror as the slab below her feet wrenched. It thudded, cracked, and rose from the ground so fast it knocked her off her feet, jolting her sideways, her hands smacking on stone just milliseconds before her face did.

Her phone tumbled into the hole that had suddenly formed in the ground.

Slowly, noiselessly, like an apparition, a man rose from the hole below. A scream caught in Miranda’s throat as he climbed steps from underground in a deliberate, measured rhythm. His face was painted with the bright blue of sacrifice, slashes of color on his cheeks and throat. He was naked but for a loincloth, and a massive jade pendant hung over his sunken chest. And there were red blood streaks everywhere. Dripping from his earlobes and his shoulders and, when he raised them to her, oozing from his palms.

“I asked the gods to solve my problems,” he said in a low whisper. “And they sent you to me.”

She was staring at a living, breathing, menacing Maya king.

“Miranda.” He sneered at her, wiping his chin with a bloody hand, smearing red on the blue stains of his face. “You have been chosen to make the ultimate sacrifice in the name of the gods.”

Paralyzed with terror, she looked up from the floor into pale blue—and horribly familiar—wild eyes.

T
HE BUNYIP TURNED
fierce in Fletch’s head, spewing a nasty bit of scurrilous scolding.

Shouldn’t have left her. Should have waited for the helo.
Wade could take that guy out from the chopper with his eyes closed. But no. Fletch had to be an impulsive larrikin trying to save the world, get the girl, and win the respect of his boss, too.

He spat, trying to rid himself of the voice and the unpleasant aftertaste of dirt and jungle.

Screw the ’yip. He had to do this.

He stayed under cover, circling the outer structures, staying out of the tower’s view by remaining very close to the north wall of the main building. He’d like to step out and get a better look at the layout of the top of the tower, but he didn’t take the chance. Even if he saw the shooter, his Glock couldn’t make a hit that far.

Confident that he hadn’t been seen, he rushed up to the veranda and, flattened against the building, started rechecking every door. All locked. He didn’t want to fire and give away his location.

He realized he was right below the balcony of the rooms he and Miranda had shared. All the fancy carving and Maya faces and jaguar heads made a decent ladder on the stucco, and in a minute, he yanked himself up. He hung from the balcony enclosure, then he flipped his lower half in the air and, with a solid grunt, vaulted the wall and landed on his feet.

The drapes behind the glass doors were drawn, but he touched the door and silently thanked the staff member who forgot to lock it. Then he drew the weapon he’d holstered for the climb and inched the curtain to the side. The bedroom was dark, empty. He went straight to the door and slipped into the vestibule that joined this room and the next, pausing to visualize the layout of the second floor.

The central stairs to the tower ran right up through the middle of the building, but access was limited to the main living area. From memory, he found that room one floor down, tucked deep into the heart of the building. It was cool and dark, thanks to closed shutters, and so dim he could barely make out the rough-hewn furniture and bright woolen wall hangings.

It was empty.

At the far end of the room, another heavy jade mask hung on the door he knew led up to the tower. Except for a four-story drop to the solid concrete pavilion, he didn’t think there was any other way out. But he wasn’t certain.

It wasn’t locked. Mildly surprised, he stepped into the darkness, his gun straight ahead and his finger on the trigger, taking a second to adjust to the blackness. When he did, he could make out the carvings on the wall and a constricted stairwell that curved tight and steep, reminding him of a newel staircase in a medieval castle. He followed it up, his footsteps silent on the stone, on deadly alert as he took the spiral up without knowing if the barrel of a rifle would be around every turn.

But it wasn’t.

At the top, the stairs ended at a small wooden door that had no knob, no lock from this side. If he shot, the answer could be a rifle blast in his chest. If he did anything except attack, he’d probably end up dead.

Bracing himself on the floor, he aimed the gun and threw his weight against the door. It flung open.

Victor Blake spun around, took one look at the gun aimed at his heart, and threw his rifle down. “Don’t shoot me.”

That was easy.

Fletch stepped into the lookout. Just ten square feet, with only a half-wall enclosure on the three open sides, it providing a panoramic view of the jungle. “Why the hell shouldn’t I? You shot at me.”

“I’m hunting.”

Fletch almost choked. “For houseguests?

“What do you want, Fletcher?”

“Your wife. Where is she?”

“My wife died of a brain tumor about twenty years ago.”

Oh, so he wanted to play games. Fletch didn’t. “I meant Taliña. Or do you call her Juanita?”

When his jaw set and he didn’t react, Fletch lifted the gun and pointed it right between his eyes. “I’ve got nothing to lose, mate. You’re the one running an Internet scam. You’re the one this close to being accused of a bombing in a major metropolitan city. No one would care if I pulled this trigger. Where is Taliña?”

“Where she always is. Hiding in her jungle.”

“Letting blood and blowing smoke?”

He wet his lips. “Maybe. Probably. She’s a complex woman.”

“She’s also wanted in Mexico. But you know that.”

“She’s not my wife.” He lifted one defiant eyebrow.

“But you wanted me to think she was. You wanted everyone to think she was. Why’s that?”

Blake sneered. “I don’t care what you think. You’re nothing to me.”

“I’m the very impatient person holding the gun in your face. Where is she?”

“She’s probably…with her husband.”

Fletch took a charging step forward, and Blake held up both hands to stop him. “My son,” he added. “She’s with my son.”

“Who is…?”

“The person you should be holding a gun to,” he said, disgust darkening his voice. “Victor’s the mastermind. He’s the fanatic—the one with the drive and ideas and ambition. Taliña and I just work for him.”

He glanced over the canopy of the faux rain forest, where the smoke trail had stopped. How long had he been gone from Miranda? And where was Cordell in that helicopter?

“You met him a few days ago,” Blake said, as if that would prove he wasn’t lying. “I’m surprised you don’t see the likeness.”

Fletch glared at him, scrutinizing his face for a recollection of someone who looked anything like this pompous, gray-haired, fat-jowled older man. None came. “Was he here, at your party?”

“Most people don’t forget young Victor,” he continued. “He’s so enthusiastic, so convicted. His interest in history started right after his mother died. He felt disconnected, I think, and lost, as any ten-year-old would, and he glommed on to this ancient studies stuff. I encouraged it at first, but then…” His voice trailed off, and he leaned back, away from the gun that Fletch hadn’t moved. “It was no surprise to me when he married an older woman. Freudian, I suppose. The replacement for his mother and someone as passionate as he was about all that Mayan business.”

Realization hit. “Wild Eyes.”

“He built this, you know.” Blake notched his head in a move meant to encompass the entire compound. “His mother, my wife, left him everything, and it was iron-clad. I got nothing for all the years I nursed her, but the kid got every dime. I guess that made up for the crazy brain he inherited from her. The day he turned eighteen, he started buying land and building monuments.”

More pieces fell into place. Wild Eyes was married to Taliña. That was the connection to the Armageddon Movement. And Wild Eyes—Victor Blake, Jr.—was no doubt the leader he and Miranda had been seeking.

“So you’re working with her by combining your sub crews with her experience selling fake identities on the street. And your son’s the idea man, is that right? What a quaint little operation.”

“He won’t last long.” Blake actually looked sad. “His tumor will take him, and he knows it. He likes to think he’s…immortal, but he’s going to die very soon.”

“That’s a shame.” Fletch didn’t bother to hide his sarcasm. “Where is he?”

Another shrug. “Cutting himself somewhere.”

“What?” Fletch demanded. “What does that mean?”

“He’s always slicing his arms, his legs—he even makes his freaking cock bleed. He calls it a sacrifice, but really, it’s the only way he can cope.” Pain darkened his features as he looked out to the grounds. “And now he knows that she and I…but Christ, it was only a matter of time until he faced the inevitable. He brought her here. He put us together.”

“Don’t tell me,” Fletch said. “He knows you’re screwing his wife.”

Blake closed his eyes. “He had to know she was better with me. We think alike, and we’re closer in age. It was part of our deal.”

“Whose deal?”

“I cover for her.” He turned slowly, looking at the jungle. “And she…rewards me. She has a colored past, which is, I guess, part of her charm.”

“A colored past? She’s part of one of the biggest crime families in Mexico. She married your son because he was a ticket out of a Mexican jail.”

“All true,” he agreed. “And that’s why I was firing the gun. Honestly, I wasn’t trying to kill anybody. After he…found us, he made everybody leave. She ran into the jungle, and he threatened the staff and went berserk. I came up here and saw him go after her. You showed up about half an hour later. I just wanted to warn her that he was out there, looking for her. It’s our signal for her to come here, to the tower. But she has to escape him—”

The heat of the hunt turned to ice-cold fear in Fletch’s veins. “He’s out there?”

“Yeah, and he knows every inch of the place. No one could hide from him out there for very long.”

Fletch backed up, his every instinct to kill this guy and run for Miranda. Instead, he lowered the gun and braced it on Blake’s chest, using his other hand to ball his collar and push him back, tipping him over the wall. “You’ve got one chance to live, pal. If you want to buy yourself a lighter sentence and a chance to spend your golden years somewhere other than jail, tell me exactly where I can find them.” He pushed him so far Blake’s back arched, and his eyes bulged. “Now.”

Only a lifetime of control kept Fletch from touching that trigger. That and the distant thump of a helicopter. “Tell me where he is, or you’re dead before that thing lands.”

The chopper rumbled closer, the rhythmic thump of the blades flattening the tops of the trees and whipping its own wind.

“He’s with me,” Fletch said when Blake turned his head just enough to see the helo. “And he doesn’t care if I shoot you point-blank or he takes you from the chopper. Believe me. If anyone can do it, he can.”

Blake closed his eyes and whispered something too low for Fletch to hear over the sound of the helicopter.

“Where?” Fletch demanded, stabbing the gun hard and shoving him so far only his knees held him in place.

“Pakal’s Crypt.”

Jesus God, that’s exactly where he left her. Fifty feet away the chopper hovered, and over the deafening thump of the blades, he heard a man holler.

Wade Cordell braced himself at the open hatch, a rifle pointed directly at them. If rumor was right, Cordell could hit Blake square in the head, even from the bird. But their client just wanted him stopped, not dead.

Fletch waved him off. “Land and come up here!”

The helo landed on the open space of the pavilion, and Wade Cordell rolled out, two guns drawn, Rambo-like, gobbling up the pavilion in a few long strides, his expression fierce even from four stories up. A gunshot knocked a door off. Footsteps thudded on the stone stairway and Wade swiftly appeared.

“He’s all yours,” Fletch said without greeting his colleague. “Get him into the helo, and meet me in the jungle.”

Wild Eyes.

It took Miranda a few minutes to comprehend what she was seeing. The paint, the blood, and the costume threw her, but she’d recognize those eyes anywhere. Watery blue, when they weren’t glinting with a hint of insanity. She remembered them from her signing in Berkeley and from the streets of Westwood and from the TV after the bombing.

“What are you doing here?” she managed to ask, still on her knees before the open vault he’d climbed out of.

“I could ask the same of you, Miranda. What are you doing on my property?”

“Your property? Where’s Taliña? She owns Canopy.”

Disgust registered on his face, intensified by the cobalt paint streaks. He put both hands on his hips, drawing her attention to his torso, which was so thin you could count the sharp outlines of his bones, but wiry strong. The only things that looked soft on him were the wisps of pale blond hair that fell over his forehead—so oddly out of place with the costume.

“I own Canopy,” he said, drawing out the words as though he were talking to a child.

She lowered her head as if considering her next move but surreptitiously searched the hole in the ground for the phone. She’d seen it fly into the air and knew it was in the grave this animal had just climbed out of.

No sign of it. Was the signal still working? She met his gaze, trying to think, trying to stay calm enough to figure out a strategy.
Be smart, not brave
. “What do you want from me?”

“I want to stop you.” His voice was steady and sure, sending an eerie feeling right down to her bones. “You know that.”

Slowly, she righted herself and stood. “Who are you, and why are you following me?”

“Who am I?” He curled his lip in disgust. “I thought you were a student of the Maya, Dr. Lang. I thought you were an expert.” He said the last word as if it were as filthy as the dirt between his bare toes.

She studied his pendant and the glyph carved into it. “Pakal?” she asked, suddenly feeling as if she were at a costume party.

He smacked her so hard and fast her head snapped back, and she stumbled again. “I should sacrifice you for that alone.”

She touched her lip and tasted blood, her brain spinning in desperation as she tried to psych him out. “You’re the leader, aren’t you? Of…the Armageddon Movement.”

“I am K’inich Ahkal Mo’ Nahb.”

Oh, Lord. Crazy didn’t even begin to cover it. “The great-grandson of Pakal.”

He tilted his head in cocky acknowledgment. “The rebuilder of a weak and splintered civilization. The revitalizer of Palenque. The recreator of a crumbling world.”

“And you…follow me around to my book signings so people won’t listen to me. You blew up a building in Los Angeles. You staged some fake mystical energy appearance in San Diego. Why?”

He gave her an incredulous look. “Because you are spreading lies and heresy. Because you are sowing seeds of doubt. Because you are wrong about everything, and you and people like you are ruining my plans.”

“Your plans? To save the world?”

“My plans to start again. Right here, in the New Palenque. With a new breed of followers. I’ve already found many students. They follow me, they speak my word, they will be saved.”

He was a cult leader, a psychopath with extreme delusions of grandeur. And she’d made the mistake of getting in his way. But why was he here?